


Incurable

by wisdomeagle



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Future Fic, Hogwarts, Mental Institutions, Multi, Rescue, Room of Requirement, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Threesome - F/F/M, teacher/student relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-27
Updated: 2005-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:07:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wisdomeagle/pseuds/wisdomeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Room of Requirement, an insane asylum, a cottage in France, and three very broken people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incurable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elizabeth_Scripturient](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Scripturient/gifts).



> **Content notes** : Beyond the obvious ones implied in the pairing list (like age difference, incest, and threesomes)? Very!dommey!McGonagall, mild spanking, and just about everyone who isn't actually featured in the fic is dead.  
>  **Spoilers/Timeline** : spoils the whole run of FF, HBP, and S6 of BtVS. Goes AU from some time in S6 of BtVS.  
>  **Justification** : Elizabeth [did one of those crack!pairing memes](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hermionesviolin/554267.html) and suggested very strongly ("Would anyone on your friends list write Two/Four/Five? River/Giles/McGonagall = geeky hotness! Plus, crossover fun. Hello, Ari") that I should write this.

Giles closes his eyes and thinks hard about finding a place to hide something. It's been ages since he's had to hide wank material -- or indeed, since he's needed the sort of wank material that you _can_ hide, but he can still summon without any difficulty the powerful fear with which he hid embarrassingly frank magazines some -- "Think harder, Rupert. We don't have much time."

"I _am_ thinking, Minerva." But of course, her voice contains the note of authority that does the trick; he is a schoolboy once again, and she a teacher. When his eyes open, the door is there.

"Good. Now. I know that it's --"

"Around here somewhere?" He holds the door for her; it's the least he can do. Finding the text will be her responsibility; he hasn't been in this room for over twenty years.

"Well, yes." She shrugs ruefully. "If school were in session, I'd assign it to Ravenclaws with detention."

"Ravenclaws are good at searching?"

"Good at finding," she corrects him. "They're not at all the same. Hufflepuffs are excellent at searching and piss-poor at finding, for instance."

"And Gryffindors?"

"Just start looking, Rupert."

"Quite right, then. I'll take the first three thousand shelves, shall I?"

"If Albus were here, he'd offer us candy."

"If Professor Dumbledore were here, he'd already have found the text."

"If he were here, we wouldn't need to resort to time travel." Minerva sighs. "I wish we had some students to help us. Granger. Lovegood."

He puts a hand on her shoulder; he should be searching, but this is important. "I know you -- I know that you can't stop thinking about your dead. But you must focus all your energies now on ensuring that you don't become one of them."

"Would you count me among your failures if we don't get out of this room alive?"

"I already do."

"How flattering."

He pulls his hand away, stumbles over his words. "Oh, no, I didn't mean -- Minerva. The Council promised full cooperation with the Ministry, and though we've tried in every way to --"

"Please, don't."

"I'm sorry."

"Right now, Rupert, the only thing I want to do is get out of here with my wand and my wits intact. If you'd rather feel sorry for yourself because you think you failed in America, by all means. The door is open. Try your luck with the Death Eaters. I won't stop you. But if you're going to help, please -- don't talk about them." She's crying, which is at once awkward and frighteningly familiar. He abandons all pretense of searching for their book and holds her close. He can feel her heartbeat and his breath is fogging up her glasses, which almost makes him laugh despite the absurdity of today, of everything. "Why did you come here, anyway?" she asks his lapel.

"To see an old mentor," he tells her tight black and silver bun. "And I found a disaster. They seem to follow me."

"It sounds more as if you're following them."

"An unfortunate habit."

"The book."

"Ah yes." He lets go of her reluctantly; he's not entirely convinced she's in any condition to be working magic. But she is not Willow, and he could never be her guide. He misses Buffy when he thinks of that.

"I thought we weren't thinking about our dead."

He is for a moment terrified that she is psychic; he is afraid not so much of the phenomenon as of Minerva McGonagall, fastidious and without a speck of nonsense about her, dealing in such matters.

"It's all over your face," she clarifies. "Don't you dare tell me you aren't thinking about the Slayer."

"Not a day goes by that I..."

"Save it for what's left of the Council."

"At the moment, that's very little."

"Then save it for sometime when we aren't up to our necks in useless textbooks. I miss Lovegood."

"Of course."

"For her ability to find things in messes. Goodness knows she needed the skill; her bedchamber was always a complete disaster."

"It's somewhat unsettling that you visited your students' bedchambers."

"She wasn't a student when... just look."

"I'm looking."

+++

River wishes Simon would find her. He sent her away and hasn't come to see her, not once. She is quite lonely here, despite the clever people all around her. None of them are like Simon; none of them understand.

+++

"There."

"There?"

He points. "There."

"That's a very high shelf."

"I must have left my wand in my other suit."

"Don't try to be funny. Please. I'll get it." She levitates the book down so easily it leaves him a little breathless. He can hardly feel the magic, her touch is so light. "So."

"So. We could always try to..."

" _No_. I can't believe you'd even suggest it."

"When faced with an impossible past and the possibility of time travel, one can't help but think --"

"And then, because one has been properly educated and _knows_ the dangers of time travel, one does the wisest thing and goes forward, where one won't accidentally unconceive oneself."

"Minerva, we could save --"

"We could not. Now be quiet; Granger enchanted the thing."

"Is there anything I...?"

"No." She stoops to place the book on the floor, then points her wand at it sharply. Like so many unruly students, the book is cowed by Minerva's gaze and gives up its secret. "See? A simple thing. Granger was quite clever, you know."

"You might have mentioned that once or twice."

"I gave it to her when she was a third year."

"And that as well." He tries hard not to roll his eyes, imagines himself telling Travers about Buffy's achievements. The image gives him the patience to listen to her bragging.

"That was when she taught it to hide. And then in her sixth year, she taught it how to move her forwards."

"Did she ever...?"

"Of course not. Hermione was not a foolish girl."

"Ah." He has heard differently, but provoking Minerva is really unnecessary. 

"Are you ready?" He nods. "Good. Stand here, and let me put it on -- there." He feels slightly mad, standing in the middle of a room full of hidden contraband, a long gold chain binding him to a very stern old woman holding a wand. She smiles at him, a rare sight that makes him feel no saner. "You're quite sure. No final goodbyes?"

"I've no one left to say goodbye to."

"Nor I." She turns the hourglass once, twice, thrice, and he loses count; it spins too quickly in her hands as she moves them away from war and loss towards whatever devastation the future holds.

++

Holmer hopes if he hurries, he can get to his flat in time to watch his shows. He's not supposed to rush it; doing rounds is important. Essential. Vital. Because naturally, the incurably insane will benefit from him checking _very carefully_ to see if they're still insane. Naturally.

So he's quite displeased when two people emerge from the doorway that's not supposed to exist. They've been having trouble with that door for years, mostly around the full moon, and some of the residents insist that it proves all their nutty beliefs are true, but no one's ever actually _come out of it_ before. Disappeared into it, well, maybe. There were some pretty strange cases about a decade back that the directors won't tell him about. 

But that doesn't explain what they're doing huddled against the wall, looking dazed. Not residents -- no one that old survives at St. Brutus's. They're mostly dead by twenty-five (suicide, though no one can prove it), though some are released. Not cured. But released. 

"Excuse me, young man. Could you direct us to the headmaster's office?"

A perfectly legitimate question, if they hadn't just emerged from the door-that-isn't-there. The door that shouldn't be there, because there _is_ no door there. And things don't just appear and disappear at random. It's not... if he's not careful, he'll be as barmy as the residents. He's heard this happens sometimes, even to directors. (Especially to directors.) So he'd do well not to tell the headmaster about the door when he shows them to his office.

"Not a problem, ma'am."

"Thank you." She's perfectly normal, a touch formal maybe, and the guy she's with is dressed like it's the twenty-first century, but they're on the whole pretty shiny. Good, decent folks, maybe visiting their daughter. (They didn't come from the nonexistent door; when he looks at the wall, the door isn't there, like it's supposed to be.)

"Right this way."

He walks briskly; it'll be too late for the match, but maybe he can listen to the aftershow if he's quick. They're both a little winded when he knocks on the headmaster's door, so he examines them more carefully. Definitely something off about them; their accents are old-fashioned, and the woman's hair is too long -- fuck. She's got a wand in her pocket. How'd he miss _that_? He sees plenty of wands, everyday; the residents like them and they're harmless enough if they don't start fencing with them, poking eyes out and the like, but an old woman with a wand is eerie and incongruous. He's more than relieved when the headmaster sees them into his office. 

++

Giles hates the invasiveness of this spell, and he knows his head will ache for hours afterwords, but he must warn Minerva. He couldn't say how he knows, but he does, with utter certainty -- Minerva thinks she is home. In a future, perhaps, but still home. This isn't Hogwarts. Hogwarts bleeds magic. This place feels as empty as his flat. He raises an eyebrow to get her attention, but before he can even attempt to establish a connection, something he's always been poor at, her voice, crisp and penetrating, tells him, _careful. This isn't Hogwarts_.

"I knew that," he thinks as angrily as he can. Minerva stifles a laugh. _Like hell_.

Fascinating. He didn't know she swore.

"Please, come in. I don't believe I know you. Friends of a patient?"

Minerva holds up a hand to caution him, but Giles doesn't need this warning either. He lets her take the first question. "We're just curious about your institution."

"Ah. Well, it's a very venerable institute, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Quite," Minerva mutters, and Giles at once feels her brilliance. This is a man who could easily talk about his job for hours. 

"Of course, if you're looking for any of the famous cases, you're going to be disappointed. We get people in here thinking they're actually going to _see_ Buffy Summers." He laughs, and it takes Giles all his energy to retain his composure. He succeeds, though, with only a tiny gasp of recognition, which the headmaster ignores. "Mostly we just house garden variety lunatics. Plenty of interesting delusions, of course, but nothing like the elaborate fantasy worlds of Summers or Potter." The headmaster seems to be personally affronted by the quality of today's mad youth; it's Minerva's turn to gasp. He wishes he could hold her hand. "If you'd like, I could give you a tour, introduce you to one of our more unique cases. I think you'll like her. She's quite a charming young lady when she's not convinced we're trying to kill her." If he chuckles softly once more, Giles is going to kill him personally. 

"We'd be delighted," Minerva says.

++

Maybe today Simon will come for her. Maybe yesterday he came for her, and she missed him, because she was in the other world. The other world; which world? It's hard to tell them apart these days. The days all blend together, the here-days and the there-days. She's a special child in both worlds, and mad in both of them. She laughs. No one else can claim that. Kevin thinks he's a superman, whatever that is; Lissa thinks she can see the future. But River sees their hearts and knows it's real. That makes her doubly mad, though, not doubly sane.

Maybe today Simon will come for her.

She can hear them before they're there, rattling the old lies. "This institution dates back to antiquity; the old records were burnt in the fire of 2020, but we're reasonably sure that Potter was dead before then -- not that we only care about the Potters of the world. There was a particularly fine young woman around then whose brain was damaged by surgery who thought she was the Tooth Fairy..." His laughter turns River's bones to ice.

There's no Simon, though, not today. He tells her so. "Your brother called. He said to tell you he has a full case-load today, but that he loves you very much and will visit you soon." Lies, lies. The doctors lie in every universe, and her brother is a doctor. This is not a healthy attitude, River. They are only trying to help. Hush, mei-mei. You're safe now. They're treating her no better than a caged beast. If anyone ever did this to Buffy, I'd... (Who is this man, who knows the Buffy girl like a friend?)

"Hello," she says, cocking her head and pretending to be sane. It amuses her to confuse the director. "I'm River."

"I'm Giles," says the man who loved the Buffy-girl. (Time travelers. Who knows what will come out of the Room next? Reavers? Vampires? Sanity?) 

"Professor McGonagall."

"River," she repeats. "Are you here to take me home?"

"No," says the woman at the same time the man says, "Yes."

"I'm afraid River will be much safer if she stays here," the headmaster says. Giles nods, but she can see that in his head, he knows the truth. Too much truth. They won't know she knows them if she doesn't tell them. Better to be mad, then. She closes her eyes, opens them to see Kaylee grinning.

"Wanna play hide-and-seek?"

"I can't lose, though. Not fair. Not just."

"I don't mind if you don't."

"Don't mind. I'd like to play fair though."

"Can't play fair if you can see the insides of everyone's brains, girl. Now, no fretting, or I'll tell Mal you're being bothersome."

River smiles. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

Kaylee looks at her hard. "Sometimes. But sometimes you're saner'n anyone."

"And sometimes I'm mad."

"When the wind is southerly," a voice says, slicing Kaylee away; she feels herself slump to the floor of _Serenity_ and wakes up with Giles peering at her from behind dusty glasses.

"A hawk from a handsaw," she whispers. "I can tell. I mean, I can't tell. Gotta keep my secrets." If he can't figure it out now, he's not very bright. But she thinks he is; she can feel his brain working.

++

Minerva blinks back tears and dust; Hogwarts has evidently not only been turned into a center for Muggle shenanigans, it hasn't been properly dusted in years. The residue of old magic lingers everywhere, and it's getting in her eyes. Over her dusty glasses, she can see that River is thinking hard, and she cannot help but be reminded of Luna, although River is the alchemical opposite of Luna, dark where Luna was bright, intense where Luna was almost unbearably diffuse. 

"Could we take her for a walk?" she asks. If they can get as far as the edge of the Forest, they can Apparate, though it's been far too many decades since she's done three at a time. 

"River, would you like a walk?" If she were River, she'd have killed the man already; he's knelt by her side as if she were an idiot, which she clearly is not, and seems to have taken a natural tendency towards condescension and made it a way of life. 

"Yes," River says, quite distinctly, in a voice that would frighten Minerva were she not already more scared than she's ever been. When the girl's hand reaches for her, she almost doesn't help her up, but the look on Rupert's face is reminder enough that as sources of information go, River is almost certain to be more productive than the headmaster and his lies, and the look in River's eyes is straight-forward seduction.

"Come on, then. I think we know the grounds well enough. Thank you for your time."

"Oh, not at all, not at all."

"We'll get River back to you when we're done." This, of course, is hardly true.

She's glad that River is silent on their journey to the front door; she is enjoying walking the halls of Hogwarts without fearing for her life. The freedom of keeping her wand by her side and not ready in her hand is exhilarating, makes her feel years younger. River walks between them, light on her feet and peering at everything as if it might suddenly transfigure itself and she doesn't want to miss the sight; she reminds Minerva of Granger in her first year, barely able to contain her wide-eyed wonder at everything magical. Granger outgrew it; River probably never will. There are certain advantages to madness, after all.

Rupert lets go of River's left hand to push open the huge oak doors that keep sunlight out of Hogwarts, but once they're outside, River reclaims his hand, and Minerva is pleased for reasons she can't articulate that they are all joined. It will make the Apparition easier, among other things. And it makes their silence more acceptable. River's hand is small but her grip strong; it reassures her more than Rupert's handclasp ever could. She hasn't yet seen River at her weakest, which gives her hope for all of them.

They slip past the old shack that was once Hagrid's home; she's glad for once that he's long gone. The state of the grounds, overgrown and raggedy, would hurt him more even than it hurts her, and it cuts her almost to her core to see her home in such a state.

"River, does, er, Muggle technology work within the walls?" Always curious, ever the Watcher.

"No," she whispers. "But they think it does. Everyone's deceived; everyone has a deception. They want to believe they've controlled it, but it's controlling them."

"Are any of the residents truly mad?"

"Course they are. I am. The Summers girl was."

Minerva is reasonably sure she says this simply because she knows it will get a reaction, and it does.

"Buffy wasn't mad. She really was the Slayer."

"Those two don't necessarily contradict each other, Rupert." She has a secret reason for saying this, and guesses right.

"That's right, Rupert. A Watcher could drive his Slayer mad."

"Do you know everything we think?"

"Try not to."

"Rupert..." She looks at him over River's head.

"Minerva, we need to get her out of here."

"Well, here we all. Have you ever Apparated before, Rupert?"

"Yes, I have."

"Really?"

"Well, er, yes."

"Headaches and nosebleeds?"

"It was a long time ago!"

"In any event, River, come here, hug me tightly; Rupert, stand behind her. Can you get your arms around both of us? Good. Excellent. We're off Hogwarts grounds so we're quite safe."

She closes her eyes and concentrates hard on the tiny cottage in France that Albus long ago promised would be hers on his death. She never actually lived there, as the years after his death afforded no opportunity for going on holiday, but somehow she suspects that he wouldn't have left her an unwarded house. Or rather, she _hopes_.

++

Pop. Poppop. These folk are crazy like her but don't have the advantage of knowing it. She'd like for Mal to meet them, to make them stop their running and set down for a spell, but Mal can't. She knows Mal's _real_ , but knows the worlds won't intersect, not even when she screams. Learned a lot of lessons at St. Brutus's that she's not unlearning ever. Ever's a long time, River. Don't make yourself any promises you can't keep.

"Wake up, Mei-mei. Wake up. You've been asleep for almost a day."

"Had things to do," she tells him.

"Lazybones."

"Any food around?"

"Sure. I'll get you something from the kitchen. You stay here. I'm worried about your medications."

"Too many medications could spoil a girl."

"You're not spoiled, River."

"Aren't I just?"

"No."

"Please, Simon, let me go."

"Where? What? River, are you all right?"

"I want to cleave unto."

"...River..."

"Please!" She sits straight upright and feels her head wobble; she's dizzy and wants to get out. Don't know why she never realized how confining _Serenity_ was, and the world all blown up.

"River, come here. You know I'd never let anything happen to you..."

"I don't want anything to happen to me. I just want to be sane again."

Simon crawls too close and puts his head on her lap; he's hiding his tears in her skirt. Why doesn't Simon ever come to St. Brutus's if he loves her this way? Where did the disconnect happen? If this is the world she made, why is it made so poorly, so illogically, so slapped-together ugly and so big and empty, why?

++

River can't see them. Giles's thumb gently moves her eyelid, but her eyes are unfocused and wild; she convulses. "We should have taken her medicine."

"I don't trust that man."

"I don't either, but we don't know what her condition might be..."

"She's a witch and was locked in that terrible place for believing things that were true. That's all. We rescued her, Rupert."

"It's rarely that simple, Minerva. Is she truly a witch?"

"Not as such... but can't we just enjoy the cottage for a moment? It's unplottable and quite safe for a little while. I'll see if I can find any news."

"How?"

"Never mind. Take River inside and watch her for an hour or so, will you? I'm going to take a bath."

"That's quite a bath."

"I haven't had access to water for three days, Rupert, not to mention the three hundred years or so in between my last bath and now."

"By all means, then. Bathe."

He watches River sleep, holds her hand when she seems still, letting go when she starts to flail. He hasn't enough medical training to help her, and feels rather helpless when screams gurgle deep in her throat. He imagines Buffy lying like this, sprawled across a bed, no one by her side to protect her from her demons, no one to hold her hand or smooth her brow. Did she die like this? He kisses River's forehead and swears she'll not die alone. Irrational and unfair, but he must seek penance somewhere.

"I'm sorry," he tells the sleeping girl. "I should have -- I should have stayed." She curls away from him. His hand on her shoulder feels impossibly big, rough and intrusive.

After awhile Minerva joins him, crouching by the bed. She rests her head on his knee, and without thought, he puts a hand on her hair, begins to trace designs into her scalp. Minerva relaxes, and that relaxes him. Even River seems to breathe a little easier. "Let's..."

"Yes, Rupert. Let's."

"If River wakes up?"

"We'll go into the next room. Come. She'll be safe for a few hours, yet."

He helps her to her feet and kisses her, just once, just enough to get a taste of her power, to feel the tension that's shaking her whole body.

"I never imagined I'd --"

"Nor I. Come."

++

River kicks at Simon, kicks at Mal when he comes in to yell at her for making too much noise, kicks at everyone. She used to dart between worlds like a god; now she's stuck in the misery that the doctors say she made. What would Simon say? Simon'd say she made the other world. Simon says. Her laughter chokes her sobs; her sobs choke her laughter, and she coughs and splutters into Simon's shoulder. "I want to go."

"No, River. Please. Stay here. We'll help you, fix your medicines again, find a good planet to settle on where there's no Alliance to worry us. Just stay a spell. Look, Kaylee made you something."

She doesn't want to see what Kaylee made her, doesn't want this world to have tangibles or flesh. She wants to kick her way out, to find a portal to resolve the worlds, to find one place where she has a little peace for once. She rolls her eyes at Kaylee's present, pulls herself away from Simon. She's too old for children's games; she wants the game the Watcher plays, rolling desire that bubbles through his mind and seethes through his shoulders and grates against his skin -- pop. Like Apparition, like discovery, she's awake and smiling. She can hear the sounds of rutting from a door away, and when she closes her eyes, she can feel the slide of skin on skin, feels Professor McGonagall's gasps like they're whispered into her ear and not his. She rides the wave, swaying against the bed, her hips lurching upwards. She thinks someone calls her name, and it might be Simon, far away, or Rupert, just one room over. It's hard to move when there are fingers everywhere, hard to see when there's naked skin brushing against your eyes, soft skin that's almost rotten in its age, so soft you'd need to be trained to touch it properly without breaking it, hard leathery skin, old and tough like mutton past its prime.

"River!" McGonagall sits up. "We're glad you're up."

"I want to play," she says, "grown-up games."

++

"You can't."

"Rupert." She moves her hand back to his chest, reminding him, as if he could forget, that she is inevitably in charge. "Let her."

"I'd be the first to admit I don't have a deep understanding of the Wizarding World and its customs, but even you must realize that --"

"She wants to, Rupert. Heaven knows what's going to happen to her -- to any of us -- and besides --"

"Can't keep any secrets from a madwoman," River supplies, and Minerva beams at her. 

"Exactly, dear. Now, would you care to join us?" Minerva sounds like she's inviting River to tea. Perhaps she is. Perhaps in the jargon of the Wizarding World, sex is as common and comfortable as a hot drink, as passionless as weak Earl Grey.

"You ought to want me more," River tells him. There's some truth there; she isn't as accessible as the women he usually takes to. There's a secret worth learning somewhere in her, but she doesn't glitter like Buffy or glow like Willow. If he wants to descend with her, he'll have to take the first step. "Will you?"

"I will," he tells her, and rolls away from Minerva. "Please, join us. It's no trouble at all."

++

River sinks into the bed. Passion is like perfume, and fills her nostrils and her brain. It's heady and expensive, makes her head ache. She can't afford to feel so much; she needs to focus on getting well. But being well could be a function of feeling good, of skinfingerstonguelips. "Professor," she sighs, and loves. There are sharp words in McGonagalls's brain, sharp words that touch her mind, soft fingerpads that stroke her soul; the anatomy of lovemaking is confused and new for all of them.

"Orgy cults, Rupert?" the professor asks, laughter in her eyes -- cat-eyes -- and on her breath, laced over River's ribcage as she tries to hold them both at once.

"I might have exaggerated slightly to impress a woman I once knew," he says, voice soft in equal parts with laughter and with arousal. He doesn't know what he's doing, but he's better at it than some.

His chest is very firm, and he could hold River up -- she imagines spinning with his arms holding her tightly, a gyroscope going round and round. She buries the dizzy fantasy on his collarbone, which loves to be kissed, to be tongued. She licks her way from his neck to his mouth, and when her tongue is finally next to his, soft breasts sink into her back, and McGonagall is saying, "You lick like a cat, River."

"So do you," she counters from somewhere inside Rupert's mouth.

"Naughty," McGonagall tells her, casually slapping her skin. She rises and falls against her hand; pressure is building deep inside. She could retreat to the Simon-world, curl up in Inara's shuttle, play jacks and hide-and-go-seek with Kaylee. Or she could rise into McGonagall's hand, her punishment and her thoughts, her magic and her cat-eyed love. She isn't even sure anymore which way is the easy way out.

"They might come after us," McGonagall is telling Rupert -- does she ever stop worrying? "We should enjoy ourselves while we can."

"Be quiet, Minerva. I _am_ enjoying myself -- quite a lot, in fact."

"Oh good," she says.

River mimics her, practices the words she's learned. "Oh good, Rupert. I hope you're enjoying me too?"

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes."

And it's good to taste, and good to touch, and good to be in love, so there's no need for to lie awake waiting for a brother who'll never come for her, because she's crazy and he's sane, and they weren't meant to be together.

++

It's good to relax, and good to fuck, and good to have a soft girl in his arms who isn't dead, who isn't the Slayer, who's quite clever and only slightly broken, who wants him and won't let him run away.

++

This is neither good nor right, but Minerva's been a war hero, and war heroes learn that you take your comfort where you can, with slightly daft Ravenclaws, with snobby, broken Gryffindors, with crazy psychic Muggle girls, with sad old Muggle men who've lost everything. Comfort's worth having, regardless of the source, and River's smile, Rupert's rueful laugh, make this moment almost bearable.


End file.
